


Favourite Person

by donskoi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Porn With Plot, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6934147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donskoi/pseuds/donskoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat has never in his life experienced this—this—attachment. Sure, he’s been known to call Roadhog his friend, and sure, they fooled around in the desert, and sure, maybe Junkrat wants to fool around some more, but none of that explains the confusion that’s become daily life.</p><p>Please read the tags and the inner notes for warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favourite Person

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I hope you noticed 'Borderline Personality Disorder' in the tags. This was written with the headcanon that Junkrat has BPD, and Roadhog is his FP, or 'Favourite Person'. This portrayal of BPD is from my point of view, how I personally experience it. It will likely be different from the experience of another person; no two Borderlines are the same. My headcanon is also that Junkrat is Bipolar, showing mostly manic symptoms. As for Roadhog... I'll get to that in another fic.  
> For more information on BPD and FPs, please visit: http://shitborderlinesdo.tumblr.com/faq  
> Secondly, you'll notice the tag 'Internalized Homophobia'. Some homophobic slurs are used, though in a lighthearted manner. I just wanted to warn readers ahead of time.

Roadhog moves like a predator. Barely restrained, like he senses blood in the water. People on the street clear a path for him. There’s something instinctive about it; fish sweeping under coral to hide from a shark.  They can smell the bloodlust on him. They avoid catching his eye. Hang their heads down, let him saunter past, holding their breath until he’s not in line of sight. In turn, he ignores them all. Roadhog isn’t hungry enough to lash out.

It makes Junkrat want to jump up and down. It makes him want to scream. Blow up one of the cars parked on the streetside. Anything, anything, just to get the big guy to look his way. To hone those hunting senses onto him. A stare, a look, a glance— but Roadhog keeps walking ahead, duffle bag of money and gear secure in his hand, his back to Junkrat and oblivious to any attempts at attracting his attention.

They’re dressed as civvies to avoid being recognized. They’d picked up some stuff from a thrift shop, even managing to find an XXXL leather jacket for ‘Hog. It barely closes over his gut, but it hides the tattoo, so it helps hide who he is. He’s not wearing his mask, neither. Just a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Junkrat himself is wearing sunglasses and a beanie, to hide his distinguishable (and inextinguishable) hair. For fuck’s sake, he’s wearing a real shirt. He’s got no explosives strapped to him, no fuses, no chemicals burning in his eyes, nothing. All of it is safely tucked away in their duffle. He misses his detonator snug in his good hand.

Junkrat hobbles on behind him, staring at his round back. They’ve been in England for four months and have already stolen more money than either of them could ever fully spend. Of course, that’s not enough, there’s always another score around the corner. But as a result they’re wanted _dead or alive_ and images of their faces and their bike (‘Hog’s hog) are plastered all over the evening news. This town has been a safe enough place to return to, time and again, while they hide the bike in the forest and hoof it to the hotel. It’s a few hours from London, their main target, and the police are so wrapped up looking for them in the big city that they haven’t spread the search out this far yet. That’s a relief, because even criminals need a good night’s sleep.

He could do with less sleeping, to be right hon--

Junkrat hits Roadhog’s back with an _‘oof_ ’ and the slap of leather against his cheek. He stumbles, trying to find his balance, and Roadhog turns to look at him. Junkrat’s eyes twitch.

“You’re quiet.” The rumble of Roadhog’s voice, for once not obstructed by his infamous gas mask, hits Junkrat right in the belly. And he hates, oh, how he _hates_ that he perks up at the sound. It’s like his ears move, like his very skull lightens its load, sparks in his brain and—

“M’ fine,” is what he replies with. “Can’t really talk in this crowd.”

Roadhog looks him up and down, suspicious, like he expects Junkrat to pull a bomb out of his ass and blow up the crosswalk. Which, to be fair, sounds like an _excellent_ idea in Junkrat’s mind.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Junkrat reiterates, stomping his peg leg into the concrete to emphasize. “Can we just get to the damn hotel already?”

“We need food,” Roadhog says, jerking his head towards a cutesy grocer’s on the corner.  Conversation over, just like that. Which is fine. Roadhog is paid to be his bodyguard, not his therapist. Or his friend. Or anything else.

They amble into the grocer’s and Roadhog immediately heads for the microwaveable meals. Junkrat doesn’t pay much attention to any of the displays, until they pass—

“Bacon!” he crows, grabbing a box with both hands. “How ‘bout some cannibalism, eh, big guy?” He shows off his prize with a light-hearted grin, showing his sharp, yellow teeth.

Roadhog just levels a weary sigh. Junkrat has been around him long enough to know when he’s rolling his eyes, even when he can’t see them.

“Microwave meat,” Junkrat says, catching up to ‘Hog’s side and throwing the box into the air. He catches it again with both hands, smirking. “You know, I haven’t had ‘bacon’ since ‘Strailia.”

Roadhog grunts, whether in agreement or derision, Junkrat can’t tell. But it isn’t taken seriously, that’s for sure, just like all of the other subtle complaints Junkrat has sent Roadhog’s way. He scowls again, dark mood returning. He dumps the box of bacon into another display the first chance he gets.

He’s quiet and sullen all throughout the rest of the grocery shopping. Roadhog loads them up with meals that can be heated and eaten quick. He doesn’t pay attention, just follows Roadhog to the front. Roadhog pays—“I handle the money,” that’d been part of the deal, like he knew from one look that no one with a brain would trust Junkrat with five cents. He hands over a couple of bags to Junkrat, who shows great restraint in only saying,

“What, now I’m a packhorse?”

Roadhog grunts in reply again and picks up his own half of the food. Like hell they should carry fifty-fifty, ‘Rat seethes, considering the difference in mass between them.

They return to the streets and Roadhog returns to that predator-strut he’s got going on. He doesn’t look half as intimidating while carrying groceries, and Junkrat is liable to poke some fun at him. But he doesn’t want to piss the pig off, so for once, he keeps his mouth shut.

He’s been doing a lot of that lately, seems like. One of these days he’s going to swell up and burst.

Hehe. That sounded kind of dirty, didn’t it? Not that he’s getting any of that, either.

Damn Roadhog.

The hotel they’re staying at is on the fringes of town, away from the crowds and busy streets. So Roadhog has no one to intimidate except for the hotel owner, who nervously hands over the keys. Junkrat sneers at them, not bothering to hide his disdain. He may be dressed like one, but civvies are all the same.

Luckily, they’re in and out of the hotel’s office. Again, Roadhog leads the way to their room, following the stone path to one of the outer doors facing the parking lot. Junkrat does get a small thrill when Roadhog unlocks the door and holds it open for him like a gentleman. He immediately shifts into a strut, flouncing by his bodyguard, grocery bags in tow.

The room is cramped, full of one big bed, a dresser with a TV on top, a mini-fridge and a microwave, and a creaking door that (hopefully) leads to a bathroom. Junkrat peeks inside—not a clean bathroom, nope. But loads better than what they had in the desert, which was nothing.

The door shuts behind Roadhog with a sense of finality. He locks up and they’re in, they’re secure, they’re safe.

Junkrat immediately rips off his hat and glasses, tossing them onto the dresser. He dumps the groceries by the fridge, assuming that ‘Hog will put them away. He next tears off his shirt, and sighs in relief when bare skin meets the slightly chilly air. He collapses onto the bed with a _huff._

“Should check it for bugs,” Roadhog says, ever the sensible one. He does indeed put the groceries away. Junkrat watches, eyelids drooping, focusing on his partner’s massive arms.

“S’too cold for bugs,” Junkrat says.

“It’s summer here.”

“Cold as balls, though.”

“Get used to it.”

Junkrat lets out a huff, feeling a flirtatious smile coming on. “You could warm me up,” he says, arching his body a little. Showing off how sweet his ass looks in these jeans.

Roadhog doesn’t even look up.

Junkrat eventually sinks back onto the bed, scowling into the covers. Fucker, fucker, motherfucker. He doesn’t look at Roadhog again until the mattress shifts underneath him.

“Hey!” He barks, holding on for dear life as the whole thing is lifted, him included. Roadhog hefts the mattress up with one hand, looking at the box-spring, checking out its underside.

“That’d be easier without the glasses,” Junkrat points out, grabbing for the edge of the mattress with his robotic hand.

“We’re good,” Roadhog says, then drops the mattress back down again. Junkrat’s whole body is jolted as it hits. He clings to the covers ineffectually as he’s bounced in place.

“Oversized _cunt_ ,” Junkrat snaps, and is rewarded with a slight smirk. That, of course, sends his insides blithering and dithering. Roadhog then turns away, towards their duffle bag. He shuffles around in there, Junkrat’s eyes on his back the whole time. Then he carefully removes his hat and glasses; Junkrat gets on his hands and knees, stretching and craning, but he can’t see around Roadhog’s bulk to see his whole face.

When Roadhog turns around again, the mask is back on and Junkrat has stopped trying.

“Feel better?” Junkrat drawls, utterly put out. As usual, Roadhog doesn’t answer him. He does sit on the bed, though, and his nearness sets little sparking fires in ‘Rat’s limbs. Roadhog turns on the television and settles his bulk against the headboard and pillows. Junkrat sneers at the newscasters from the bottom of the bed, as if what he’s feeling is their fault.

It’s a curse, it’s got to be. Junkrat has never in his life experienced this—this—attachment. Sure, he’s been known to call Roadhog his friend, and sure, they fooled around in the desert, and _sure_ , maybe Junkrat wants to fool around some more, but none of that explains the confusion that’s become daily life. Junkrat tells a joke, Roadhog gives a little guffaw of amusement. That makes Junkrat’s god damn _day_. Roadhog shakes his head, or worse, doesn’t react—that _ruins_ it.

It’s enough to spin Junkrat’s head. He’s never needed anyone, not in his fucking life, but here he is, getting soft on his fucking bodyguard.

It isn’t love. That much he’s adamant about. Love is supposed to be soft and caring and compassion, right? What he feels for Roadhog is gritty as dirt and near as clean. There’s caring, sure, but there’s _POSESSION._ Like Roadhog is _his_ , _his_ bodyguard, _his_ friend, _his_ partner in crime. He’s never been a jealous person, but fuck me, if--

None of this nonsense makes sense, not even in his crooked thinking.

He needs a distraction, before he does something stupid. Like jump on the bed and fall off or blow up the television or rip off the rest of his clothes. All of which would get Roadhog’s attention, sure, so they _sound_ like good ideas, but he doesn’t want to come across as desperate, does he? Hell no. He’s still got his dignity, and he’ll thump the bastard who suggests otherwise.

He slides off the bed and takes off his shoe. First things first. Don’t want to muss up a perfectly nice bed. Then he reaches for the duffle and digs through it, getting out his tools and his canisters and the bottles of highly explosive unstable liquids. Last heist, he used up precisely twelve handhelds and six bricks of C-4. He needs to replace those handhelds at some point, might as well be now.

He lays flat on his belly on the bed, kicking his foot into the air behind him. He spreads out everything he needs on the duvet and gets to measuring and sorting. Not the most precise desk he’s ever had, but it’s comfy. He builds all of his bombs by hand, organic and robotic. Each little glass tube is lovingly filled, each canister carefully screwed together. He gets lost in his work, so even the annoying buzz of the television fades into the background.

At some point, though, the back of his neck prickles. His instincts are telling him _beware, beware_ , and he knows Roadhog is staring at him. He doesn’t quake, though; Junkrat isn’t afraid of anything. Least of all some fat bastard, even if he is a sadist. The attention, though, it goes right to his gut and he can’t help but smile.

“What?” Junkrat asks, voice skewed by the miniature screwdriver stuck between his teeth.

“You’re quiet,” Roadhog says. “You’ve been quiet all day. It’s fucking weird.”

“I’m working, mate. Concentrating.” He waves one of the full canisters, as if to say, ‘See? See?’

Roadhog grunts. But his eyes don’t leave Junkrat. Like he’s waiting for the elastic to snap.

Junkrat pretends he doesn’t care, keeps his expression neutral (or so he thinks; the grin plastered across his face says otherwise). But his focus isn’t entirely on his work anymore.

“Shite,” he mutters, realizing too late he’s filled the wrong glass tube with the wrong flammable liquid. It’s clear when it’s supposed to be cloudy. But he’s got like five bottles of clear liquids. Which one did he mistakenly put in? He might still be able to salvage this, if--

“Stop lookin’ at me!” He barks, twisting and glaring at Roadhog. “I swear, you’re more distracting than a porno, could you at least be _subtle_ , or has subtlety escaped you for the entirety of your miserable life?!” On ‘life’, Junkrat is halfway to throwing the misused canister at Roadhog before a large hand is snapped around his wrist, stopping him mid-motion.

“We’ve discussed this,” Roadhog snarls, suddenly _right there_ , and that’s his killer voice he’s using. It sends Junkrat’s spine into a tangle. “No chucking explosives at me.”

“It’s botched, it wouldn’t blow,” Junkrat mutters, eyes on the hand that encompasses his entire forearm. “I think.”

Roadhog pries the still-open canister out of Junkrat’s grip. ‘Rat pouts like a scolded child who’s had his toy taken away. Then he perks up, finding a distraction.

“D’you want me to do your war paint again?” He asks, grabbing Roadhog’s free hand and flipping it over to inspect his nails. Sure enough, the black polish is chipping. “I could neaten this right up for ya, no charge.” He chuckles, as if he’d ever charge Roadhog for anything.

“Fine,” is the tired response. “Put this shit away first.”

Junkrat hastily obeys, deciding to leave the fucked up canister as a mystery for another time. He’ll likely just throw it out, they can always get more canisters later. And if it does happen to blow…? Well, he wishes he could see it happen, just to see what a half-hearted explosion looks like. Probably sadder than a limp dick.

The bed neatened up, Junkrat breaks out the polish and gets comfortable cross-legged. He holds up the jar with an expectant grin and Roadhog places his hand on Junkrat’s knee.

This is. This is good. No stupid antics needed, just Roadhog’s focus on him as he unscrews the cap. He ducks his head to hide his grin as he strokes the brush down Roadhog’s broad thumbnail. They’d started this little tradition in the outback, when they’d been on their way to the harbour. Junkrat had found the first bottle of black nail polish in one of the many abandoned towns they passed through and had painted it across his cheeks. War paint. Been a bitch to wash off, but he got it off eventually and somehow the idea came about to paint their nails with it. It just looks cool. And Junkrat likes that they match, in some little way. Kinda fruity, if he’s bein’ honest, but it’s black, not pink. No hearts or nothing. Plain badass, it is.

Roadhog’s hand is thick and callused all to hell. Junkrat doesn’t need to, but he holds it with his organic hand while his robotic one does the painting. It’s not like Roadhog shuffles around or is antsy, like he is. No, Roadhog stays perfectly still, his belly rising and falling with breath, watching Junkrat’s hands.

“People are spoiled here,” Junkrat says. “They never scavved a day in their lives. They never starved. They have everything handed to them.” He paints with steady strokes, moves on to the next finger. “And everywhere you go, damn ‘bots, asking for rights and freedoms and _bull_ shite. Did you see those omnic police the other day? Fucking right bitchin, is what I think. Like their kind never got anybody killed. Or destroyed entire continents.”

Roadhog snorts.

“No, I wasn’t born yet, thank you very much, but I still had to live with the aftereffects, didn’t I? I grew up in Junkertown same as you, big guy.”

Roadhog says nothing.

“I know it wasn’t always Junkertown. Maybe it was something nice before. I wouldn’t know.” He lifts Roadhog’s hand and blows on his drying nails. Roadhog’s fingers twitch as his breath breezes over his skin. “Other hand.”

Roadhog dutifully switches, his left now resting on Junkrat’s knee. ‘Rat holds onto it again, ‘keeping him still’, and keeps talking.

“It just riles me right up. I see these people, with all their _things_ , and I want to take ‘em. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. S’why I’ve been so quiet, maybe.” If you say ‘maybe’ after, it’s only half a lie. “I want to level all their buildings, give them a wasteland to grow up in, and see how well they do.” He’s starting to sound bitter. He switches gears, getting that grin back. “But hey, least I got to meet you! Would’na been doing that if I grew up somewhere fancy-pantsy.”

Roadhog sighs.

“Yeah, we’re right good friends,” Junkrat prattles on, smiling to himself, one hundred percent genuine. “Two freaks on the run, that’s us. Hey, you think I could lob a ‘nade and time it so it blows up right in an omnic’s face? Depends on how tall it is, right? Think it would run around like a chicken with its head shot off?” Junkrat laughs, pulling the brush away from Roadhog’s nails so he doesn’t smear the polish.

“No,” Roadhog grumbles. “They die the same as anything else missing a head.”

“Yeah, you’d know,” Junkrat says.

He’s about to dip the brush back into its bottle when Roadhog says, “Jamie…”

All of Junkrat’s gears stall. He gapes like he’s forgotten where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. He slowly, slowly lowers the brush back into its bottle, capping it with shaking hands and a half-manic, half-confused grin.

“Yeah?” he asks, breathless, because this is the third time Roadhog’s ever called him by his real name. The first two times were under _very_ different circumstances.

Roadhog takes a huffing breath. Their eyes meet through the mask, and Junkrat has never been able to tell what colour his irises are.

“You’re all right,” he says.

The first thing Junkrat experiences is intense anger. _Just_ all right?! Then confusion. _Why_ the fuck is Roadhog saying this? Next comes a reminder: he knows _my_ name, but refuses to tell me his. Anger again. _All fucking right??_ Confusion again. _What_?!

His face must have betrayed the flying of emotions, because Roadhog is laughing at him now. Quick, quiet _huffs_ that shake his round shoulders and wheeze through the gas mask in deep resonance.

“Yeah, you too, mate,” Junkrat mutters. “Pig bastard—I mean, _best friend_.” He quickly finishes up Roadhog’s pinkie finger (bigger than Junkrat’s middle finger), then shoves his hand off his lap with no circumstance. “There, nails’re done, get lost.”

His cheeks and ears are burning, and it’s nothing to do with real fire. He turns his back to Roadhog, determined to ignore him and his stupid still-laughing, probably-really-ugly face. He puts his good hand on his raised knee and starts touching up his own polish, hyper-aware of the man sitting behind him, but pretending he’s not.

 _All fucking right,_ he seethes. _I’ll show you all right, you giant, monstrous, bleeding— pig!!_

 

Blowing bubbles in the bathwater. This is what it’s come to.

Junkrat’s never been a fan of bathing. He doesn’t like water in general. Can’t swim. Never tried. Where the hell would he swim out in Junkertown? It rains once a year if you’re lucky, and unlucky, because once it starts raining you have to run for cover from the fallout.

Bath’s not too bad. It’s warm, the water’s clean, and it doesn’t smell funky. As he ducks his chin under to blow more bubbles, he tastes the metallic tang of city pipes.

He just—had to get away from Roadhog for a while.

He hates the big lug sometimes. Really, truly hates him. He makes Junk-- Jamie feel small and unimportant. Sometimes. And he hates it, and him. Sometimes.

But he’d be heartbroken if—when it’s time to part ways. While the going’s good they’ll stick together, but there’s no way they’ll be partners forever. Junkrat’s not stupid.

He blows more bubbles into the water. They rise to the surface and pop, one after the other.

He ducks his head under and screams.

It all comes raging out of his chest: the confusion, the frustration, the come-and-go hatred.

Then he inhales.

Oops.

He’s too busy drowning to hear the door smash open. A huge hand grabs him by his bum arm and hauls him up. As soon as he hits air his body simultaneously struggles to take a breath and vomit up all the water he’d just shot straight into his lungs. He coughs and hacks, clinging to whatever is holding him up.

“Idiot,” a deep, unforgiving baritone grumbles.

Junkrat glares at Roadhog blearily, blinking water out of his eyes and still coughing. He’s got a death grip on Roadhog’s meaty arm, using it to haul himself away from the water.

“Get me the fuck outta this thing!” He wheezes, voice strained and sickly from choking. Roadhog obliges, plucking his naked ass out of the water without so much as an off-kilter breath. He holds the shivering ‘Rat to his chest with one arm while he grabs the towel with the other.

“How is it,” Roadhog starts to say, and Junkrat shudders as that bass goes right to his ribs. “That you almost kill yourself every single damn day?”

“Talent,” Junkrat says, a little on the wheezy side.

It’s not the first time he’s been naked in Roadhog’s arms, so there’s no shame between them. Junkrat is still fighting through the shock that he almost died in a fucking hotel bathroom.

Roadhog puts him down, so he’s sat on the edge of the tub. He wraps the towel around Junkrat’s shoulders and takes a step back.

“Yeah, I know, it’s your job,” Junkrat mutters. “Still. Thanks.”

He pulls the towel over his head and frantically dries out his hair. When he’s done, it’s sticking up at all sorts of crazy angles and Roadhog is still watching him.

“What?”

Roadhog tilts his head.

“I’m not gonna fall back in.”

Roadhog just looks at him.

Junkrat ignores him, drying off his skin as quickly as he can. Won’t be able to get his ass, pressed against cold porcelain, but he can live with being a little wet between the legs. As long as the stumps of his arm and leg are fully dry, the rest of him can air dry.

When he’s thoroughly rubbed all water off of his limbs, Roadhog hands him his prosthetic arm and leg, one at a time.

“Thanks,” Junkrat repeats, re-attaching them one-handed with practiced ease. The heavy feelings from before have mostly lifted, and he’s back to thinking of Roadhog as his mate again. When he’s done, he stands up, wrapping the towel around his waist to finally get his ass.

“What?” He asks again. Roadhog is still standing in the doorway, looking him over carefully. ‘Rat opens the towel and flashes him with a manic grin. “Like what you see?” He ‘cocks’ his hips, putting his naked body on display.

Yup, Roadhog is rolling his eyes again. Junkrat howls with laughter as his bodyguard gives up and stomps away.

“Maybe I shoulda turned around,” Junkrat giggles, then calls, “Least that part of me isn’t synthed, eh?!” There’s no answer, which is no surprise. He’s used the same joke at least a dozen times now, all in varying stages of undress.  But _he_ still thinks it’s hilarious.

When the laughing subsides and he’s completely toweled off, he shamelessly parades into the main room and to their duffle bag. Bending over (yes, so Roadhog can clearly see), he searches through the wads of cash and Roadhog’s oversized pants until he finds his shorts. He tugs them on, jumping to get better leverage, the ghost of a grin still stretching across his face.

Roadhog has gotten changed too, probably while Junkrat was in the bath. His jacket’s gone and so are his heavy metal boots. How on earth the behemoth ever finds boots in his size, Junkrat doesn’t know, maybe he gets them made special? But _where_ , they were in the middle of nowhere for years, no damn cobblers in Junkertown.

He’s just about to open his mouth and ask when Roadhog gestures to the television. Junkrat gives it a disdainful glance, then focuses on it when he sees his own face.

“Dangerous criminals”, “stole the crown jewels” (they’re still in the duffle bag, wrapped up in a pair of Roadhog’s pants. Haven’t sold them. Never will.), “wanted by every police force in the world”. Fancy that, and they haven’t even gotten to the US yet. Just wait till the Americans get a load of _these_ Aussie bastards.

Again, there’s that intense urge to level it all. Bring down society brick-by-brick, explosion after explosion, give their kids something to cry about, share a taste of what it was like growing up with nothing. Let them watch their parents waste away of radiation poisoning--

Least ‘Hog understands. Junkrat ambles over to the bed and jumps onto it with an airy _oof_. With Roadhog’s weight on it, it barely bounces to accommodate him.

“Is it Frederick von Tessington the third?” Junkrat asks.

Roadhog just looks at him.

“Your name,” Junkrat clarifies. It’s been a while since they played this game, after all.

Nothing.

“No,” Junkrat muses. “Something more simple, innit? Like… James… hey, same as me? James Smith? No? Henry Johnson? Heh, Johnson. Martin White? You look white to me, mate, but I’m no good at tellin’.”

Roadhog sighs.

“I’ll get it eventually,” Junkrat promises. “And you gotta tell me when I do! No pussying out and not saying anything.”

Silence.

“Well, you won’t tell me, and I gotta know, so guessing games it is.”

Nothing.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop. Jeez. You’d think I was pulling out your toenails.” Junkrat rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “You got something better to do?” … “Oh, right, the television. Keeping up with current events. You care that much about the world?” … “Really? I didn’t think it was important to you.” … “True.”

Unfortunately, Junkrat doesn’t care all that much for the world (that abandoned him), so he doesn’t much care for what’s going on in it. Which gives him nothing to do while being trapped in a tiny room all night. He’s getting crazy urges again. His trigger finger is itching, and it’s a god damn piece of metal.

He gets up and paces the room. He can cover it in three strides with his long legs and three strides back again. He does it a dozen times or so before the idea wears off its charm.

“I’m gonna go out,” he says.

“No,” Roadhog says.

“Just for a walk,” he insists.

“No,” Roadhog also insists.

“C’mon! It’s not dark out and I’ve got me knives—”

“You’ll attract too much attention. You always do.”

“I will not,” Junkrat seethes. “I am a grown man and I can do what I want!” He heads for the door, back straight, head held high. Hell yeah. Told him.

The only sound that warns him of incoming danger is the squeak of mattress springs. Then he’s yanked back and stalled, a single large hand wrapped around his skinny waist. The heat of skin-on-skin does his thought process in more than almost being lifted off his feet. Foot.

“I said _no_ ,” Roadhog growls. “You don’t even have your boot on, you’re a fucking mess.”

Junkrat looks down at his bare foot. His toes wiggle of their own accord. “Oops,” he says. His bicep is grabbed as well and he is bodily pulled back. He wiggles to get away and reaches for the door in vain. “Want—out—” he strains, “Tiny fucking _room_ —”

“Read a book or something.” Roadhog picks him up and tosses him back onto the bed. He bounces, pouting at the wall.

“You see any books in here?” Junkrat grouses.

“You should be used to this by now,” Roadhog says from behind him. “This is what being on the run means. This is what hiding for your life means. A few hours of excitement, and a lot hours of doing nothing.”

“It sucks!” Junkrat snaps, slamming his fist onto the bed. “I’m going bloody bananas!”

“I will tie you down if I have to,” Roadhog threatens.

Junkrat pauses. “Well, that’d be one way to pass the time,” he says, leering over his shoulder. Roadhog is standing with his hands on his hips, and the sound he lets out is pure frustration. Junkrat snickers. But he knows Roadhog is serious about the threat (he’s been trussed up before. Hog-tied, if you will), so he decides to stop acting out. At least right now he can still move his limbs.

When he’s convinced that Junkrat has settled down, Roadhog sits down on the edge of the bed, facing the television again.

Time passes. Junkrat occasionally bursts into random bits of conversation, but mostly keeps quiet, keeps to himself. He can tell Roadhog is cherishing the silence, which doesn’t make him feel any better.

At some point, Roadhog gets hungry and does up two of those meals. Junkrat tries to refuse one, not in the mood, but Roadhog tells him he’s too skinny and forces it on him. He eats, just to make Roadhog happy, not because he wants to. The food is disgusting, and he longs for the taste of a cicada burrito. Back home the mutated bugs were the most common form of protein, so there were hundreds of recipes involving insects and arachnids of all kinds. Though you have to be careful about spiders. The venom tastes good, sure, but it’ll make your mouth numb for hours. Eating some species will outright kill you.

As fucked up and dangerous as Junkertown was, or is, assuming it hasn’t been wiped off the map yet; Junkrat certainly misses it. He wonders if Roadhog does, too.

The summer sun sets at last, and the room goes dark. Roadhog turns on the light and keeps watching TV. Junkrat is bored to death of hearing the same news stories told over and over again. Eventually, however, it gets late, and the TV is finally clicked off. Roadhog is like a babysitter with a strict bedtime for his charge. Sure, they’ll be up early, hoofing it across town back to the bike before anyone else is up. So that means early bedtime, if he doesn’t want Junkrat to be a cranky mess all day. Well, even more of a cranky mess.

Alongside the nails, this is a ritual that hasn’t changed since they left the desert and came into civilization.

They still share a bed. Bedroll, in the outback, but the concept is the same.

Junkrat sits up for the first time in hours and stretches. He removes his prosthetics and, with Roadhog’s help, lays them carefully within reach, onto the floor. Then he wiggles and pulls his way up to the head of the bed. It’s far too cold for him to sleep over the covers; he ducks under them, pulls them up to his chin and curls up into his usual ball. Behind him, Roadhog settles on his three-quarters of the bed, and clicks the light off. They’re plunged into darkness and Junkrat waits. There’s a clink of nails on a buckle, the whisper of straps falling, and yes—Roadhog has removed his mask. He places it down somewhere, probably on the nightstand.

An impulsive plan forms in Junkrat’s mind, and he decides to play the waiting game.

“G’night,” he says, a touch too sweetly. Roadhog grunts.

He doesn’t know how long he waits. Roadhog asleep is exactly the same as Roadhog awake: dead silent and always ready.

When he thinks enough time has passed, he clumsily rolls over onto his right side, so he’s facing ‘Hog. He’s like a mountain lying on his back. Junkrat uses the stump of his right arm to prop himself up, wiggles a little closer, and reaches with his organic hand.

The tip of his index finger touches rough skin and his wrist is grabbed. He freezes, and the grip tightens threateningly.

“C’mon,” he moans. “Give me _something_.”

There’s no movement, not even a breath.

“You’re doin’ me in,” Junkrat confesses. “Back home, I couldn’t get your hands off me! Then suddenly we hit civvies and you’re constantly two steps back. I don’t even know what you look like. I don’t even know your damn _name_. What kind of partnership is this?”

He leaves off, breathing like he’s run a race. He jumps when the man next to him rumbles, deep in his chest. He wasn’t expecting an answer. He’s more used to silence.

“You’re young,” Roadhog says. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I bloody well damn do!” Junkrat spits.

“What two men do in the middle of the desert—”

“You fucking dickhead—”

“—isn’t fit for more civilized places.”

“What, you think I _care_?” Junkrat snarls. “You think I care what other people think? Because I’m a fag, and that should be hidden? I fucking don’t fucking think so!”

Roadhog, if at all possible, goes even more still.

“Of course I’m bloody gay, you giant imbecile! You think all the hints and the flirting were out of desperation? The desert wasn’t that fucking hot, mate!”

Somehow, through the dark, Roadhog is looking at him. Really looking at him. The prickles on the back of Junkrat’s neck tell him so.

“Yes, I like you!” He tries to wrench his wrist out of Roadhog’s grip, but to no avail. Instead, he’s tugged closer. “A lot.” He continues, his volume dipping down. “It’s right confusing, how much I like you. I never—I didn’t—” How is Junkrat supposed to voice this? How is he supposed to give words to the possessiveness, the wanting, the need for his attention? How can he say any of it without sounding like an absolute poof?

“When you look at me,” he says slowly. “An’ talk to me, it feels the same as if I’m starin’ at a mighty big boom. Awe. Joy. I feel—” _Special_. He chokes on the word.

Roadhog growls. Growls, like a fucking bear. It freezes Junkrat’s insides with warnings of _danger_ but he’s tugged down and Roadhog sits up, meeting him halfway.

There’ve been kisses before. Not with Roadhog, but with other boys when ‘Rat was a teenager. Sloppy, unskilled, messy.

Nothing like—nothing like this.

Roadhog is powerful. He’s strong. He takes no prisoners. Not now, not ever. Junkrat tries to reciprocate as best as he can, but the broad tongue that sweeps into his mouth turns his body to jelly. He’s shoved back against the softness of the bed, with a hot, heavy body on top of him. His grip on Roadhog’s shoulder squeezes into nail-biting-skin territory. Mouth on mouth, they share breaths and gasps, making out like they’ll never see the sunrise. It’s surprisingly tender, surprisingly slow, but Roadhog never lets up. Junkrat is desperate to breathe properly, but he never wants to breathe again, so long as this never ends.

Eventually they come up for air and they’re both winded. Roadhog is making growly little sounds that reverberate through Junkrat’s body and send him shivering all over. He hovers over him, eyes adjusted to the dark, and Junkrat finally gets to touch Roadhog’s face.

Square jaw, rough skin, scars slashing across cheeks. That much he knew from when ‘Hog was wearing sunglasses. His eyes are smallish, shutting when Junkrat runs his thumbs over the lids. He’s got no eyebrows; mask probably rubbed them right off. There’s another scar across his forehead, down across his flat nose, horizontal over his eyes, like someone tried to blind him.

Eyes that have seen the apocalypse and survived.

“What colour--?” Junkrat starts to ask.

“Plain brown,” Roadhog answers.

Junkrat grins. He can see the shadows of his friend’s face, and it’s more than he’s ever been given before.

His heavy gut is pressing down, pinning Junkrat in place without any effort. Not that Junkrat wants to get away. His fingers slip into Roadhog’s white hair and tugs him down.

“I like you,” he says between kisses, because he knows Roadhog wants to hear it. Roadhog groans in response, and the sound sends a crescendo of feeling through Junkrat’s frazzled brain.

When their hips meet and grind, it’s clear what they both want. Junkrat is more than eager, more than ready, and he squirms with purpose. He doesn’t care if it’ll be rough n’ dirty, he likes it that way.

“Thought you were teasing,” Roadhog says, breaking their kiss. “Thought you were tryin’ to get on my _nerves_. Didn’t think you meant it.”

“Meant it,” Junkrat gasps. “Now get the damn lube.”

Roadhog is off him in an instant, heading for their bag. Junkrat wriggles his way out of his shorts as best as he can with one hand and leg. He tosses them to the floor along with the covers. Cool air kisses his skin and he pants, laying back, buzzing and wiggling with excitement. The big black shape of Roadhog in the dark is back on the bed in seconds, looming over him and Junkrat swears he can feel the trail of those _plain brown_ eyes over his body.

“C’mon,” Junkrat says, arching his back, spreading his legs. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

A warm, wet hand wraps around his dick and he gasps, bucking into it. Roadhog’s mouth finds his again, broad tongue pushing inside, licking along his gums as he’s slowly jerked. Junkrat whines, wanting more, wanting it faster, but the hand wrapped around him is lazy and pumping. He gets Junkrat hard, painfully hard, before letting go. There’s only so much Junkrat can do with one hand, but he fumbles for Roadhog’s groin anyway. He’s denied, his outstretched hand slapped away at the last moment. Roadhog pins his wrist down to the bed and hovers over him, his other hand stroking between his own legs.

“Not fair,” Junkrat chokes out.

“Never said I was,” Roadhog answers smoothly.

Wet fingers crawl between his legs and Junkrat arches up, giving them access to his ass. They pluck at his hole, making him gasp, before pressing in. He forces himself to relax, to take it, and those thick fingers sink into him.

“Good,” Roadhog breathes, and the praise goes straight to his head. Both of them.

“Gimme more,” Junkrat demands, voice pitched. Roadhog obliges, inserting a third finger. The middle one is big enough to press up against _there_ , to rub it incessantly, and pleasure, hot, burning, rampaging, crackles through his nerves, setting them all off like sparking fuses. With every stroke against that spot, Junkrat’s hips thrust up, and he takes those thick fingers in a little deeper.

 His thoughts are flashing by a thousand per second, and he can’t hold on to anything.

Roadhog pulls away, and his fingers slide out, leaving emptiness in their wake. Junkrat’s hand is freed, for favour of Roadhog settling over top of him, close to him, close enough that hips meet ass. Junkrat clutches for Roadhog’s shoulder, digging his fingers in, panting and squirming. 

 “Hurry up!” Junkrat whines, “I’ve gotta come or I’m gonna—” He shuts right up as a hot, wet, wide girth presses up against his hole. Roadhog’s cock is as hefty and as heavy as the rest of him, and it’s no small feat that Junkrat was able to take it the first time.

“That’s more like it,” Junkrat says, edging on cackling, and Roadhog sighs. He juts forward, and Junkrat freezes and stiffens all over as the blunt head penetrates him.

“Relax,” Roadhog reminds him. Junkrat exhales, willing his body to obey, and the cock sinks in a little further. Roadhog puts pressure on it, and slowly, slowly, Junkrat’s body swallows him whole.

“I forgot about this,” Junkrat whinges, voice as tight as his ass. “How did I forget about this?”

“You’ll forget about it again,” Roadhog assures him. He sounds off-kilter for once, his deep voice strained and rattling.

Junkrat plants his foot on the bed and arches his hips, making it easier for Roadhog to press inside. Roadhog runs his arm under ‘Rat’s back, supporting him and keeping him balanced. When he’s fully sheathed, balls to buttcheeks, he pauses, either savouring the feeling of his cock being so thoroughly buried or giving Junkrat a moment to breathe.

“I’m alright,” Junkrat says, gripping the sheets as hard as he can. His dick throbs in time with his heartbeat, reminding him of the arousal built up in his bloodstream. He disentangles his hand and grabs Roadhog’s head, tugging him down. They meet in a soft, heated, closed-mouth kiss.

Roadhog starts moving. Pulls out, slow and steady, like he knows he’ll win this race. Then pushes back in, slick and sweet as honey. The massive cock inside of him presses terribly, wonderfully, against the good spot inside of him and Junkrat moans. Loud, free, completely shameless.

Roadhog’s good at keeping pace, and soon enough there’s a rhythm to his thrusting. Junkrat himself isn’t so good at it. He squirms and wiggles and shakes, trembles head to toes and grabs whatever he can reach for support. Roadhog keeps him spread open, gets faster and faster, until the whole bed is bouncing in time with them. The headboard slaps against the wall and the springs creak. Roadhog groans, the low timbre near-violent in the dark. Their mouths crush together, all teeth, as every thrust sends Junkrat tumbling closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” Junkrat moans, every time that spot is hit. “Shit. Fuck. Hell. Bloody—I’m gonna fucking come!”

“Not yet,” Roadhog snarls, entirely focused on his work. “Not till I say.”

“Fuck you,” Junkrat hisses, stabbing his fingers into Roadhog’s arm.

Roadhog _stops moving_. Junkrat whines, his insides coiled tight, so fucking _close_ —

“Fuck _me_?” Roadhog snaps, and fuck, if that voice isn’t enough to send Junkrat plummeting—

Then Roadhog is hammering into him, violently, bruising, hitting every nerve and spark—

Roadhog is saying something, but the blood is roaring in Junkrat’s ears—

His whole body feels alight, counting down to release, the pressure is immense, crushing him—

Again and again, into him and against him, all around him, inside— _inside_ —

Can’t—

Feels too good—

Don’t fucking stop—

With a yowl and lots of kicking, Junkrat comes. Spunk bursts out of his dick like it’s got somewhere to be, slicking up his belly and sticking there. He collapses back, limp, gasping, like he’s found dry land for the first time. His eyes squeeze shut and he moans, protesting weakly as Roadhog continues to use him.

“So fucking _good_ ,” he hears Roadhog murmur, and the praise elevates his high. He chuckles, eyelids heavy, shifting, trying to ignore the rebuilding of pressure as his oversensitive good spot is assaulted.

Roadhog comes with a low bassline groan that seems to shake the whole room. It certainly shakes up Junkrat’s bones. Wet heat bursts inside of him and he half-whimpers, half-laughs.

Too good. Too damn good.

To avoiding crushing his smaller partner, Roadhog has the good graces to pull out and lay to the side. They catch their breath together, and Junkrat can’t stop the stupid smile from gracing his face. How’s _that_ for getting Roadhog’s attention, huh?

Junkrat rolls over, facing ‘Hog and pressing his nose into the older man’s arm. He smells like sweat and blood and the heat of a far-off apocalyptic wasteland.

“That was fun,” Junkrat says. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

Roadhog chuckles. It goes straight to Junkrat’s heart. He laughs along and snuggles in closer. Roadhog actually puts his arm around him and tugs him closer, like he could get used to this.

“Mako,” Roadhog says suddenly.

“Huh?”

“My name. Mako Rutledge.”

Junkrat jumps up in response and plants another kiss on _Mako’s_ lips.

“Mako and Jamie,” he says, completely giddy. “Sounds good, donnit?”

“I prefer Roadhog.”

“A’ite,” Junkrat says, undeterred. “I’ll keep calling you ‘Hog. You can call me whatever you want.”

“Alright,” Roadhog says low, lumberous, exhausted. “…Jamie.”

Junkrat never thought he’d die happy, but if he died right now, it’d certainly be that way.

 

“Wake up!”

Junkrat jumps into a sitting position, utterly startled. He blinks sleep out of his eyes—it’s still dark. There’s something off, but he can’t put his finger on what it is.

Roadhog is already up and pulling on his pants. He leans over the bed to hit Junkrat again, but finds him sitting up and looking at him in confusion.

His prosthetics are thrown unceremoniously into his lap. Junkrat fumbles to catch them, barely managing to keep them from rolling to the side.

“What?” he asks.

“We have to go,” Roadhog says. “Get those on and get dressed.”

Junkrat slowly attaches his leg, looking around for whatever it is driving Roadhog into a frenzy. He hears sirens in the distance, but that’s all that breaking the quiet of the night.

That, and the shine of light coming in from under their door.

Junkrat nearly screams “FUCK!” before Roadhog shuts him up. He hastens to get his arm and leg on, then jumps out of bed. He nearly yells again when pain laces all the way from his ass up his spine. But he grits his teeth and ignores it; he’s dragged himself through worse.

It’s blasted damned hard to see in the dark, but he’s found his grenade harness and straps it over his bare chest. Roadhog has pulled out his shotgun, and is hefting it like he’ll need to use it. He’s got his mask back on, Junkrat can see the glint of the light reflecting off the eyes. Junkrat tugs on his boot and pulls his ‘launcher from the duffle bag. Everything sorted, Roadhog zips the bag up and slings it over his shoulder.

“They’ll be expecting to surprise us,” Roadhog says. “Stay low, and we’ll head for the trees. And for fuck’s sake, stay behind me this time.”

“Ya,” Junkrat says. He’s grinning again, this time with a much different energy. A blood-fueled energy, a ‘let’s flatten the building’ energy, also known as the ‘no one can stop us now’.

“We stay together,” Roadhog says. “Don’t let them separate us.”

Junkrat takes that to heart.

“ _Never_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it.


End file.
